


Names

by inthegrayworld



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluffier than I would normally be comfortable with tbh, Fluffy like a pancake, Fucking, One Shot, Redeemed Ben Solo, This is because I had that last vodka and shit why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthegrayworld/pseuds/inthegrayworld
Summary: They whisper to one another in bed, trying to determine what it is she should be calling him.





	Names

**Author's Note:**

> I'm drunk, it's 3am, I haven't written Reylo in a few months, I just felt like it.
> 
> inthegrayworld.tumblr.com

“Ren,” she whispers it (barely—she breathes it, the syllable floating on a gentle exhalation that ends when she clenches her teeth).  
  
He is inside her, for the second time tonight, past the initial notions of— _kriff, did she just say—ask me if I wanted to—she’s taken my hand_ —her fingers were strong, fingerprints pressing into the back of his knuckles because she wanted this—wanted—  
  
\--and he'd eased back onto the mattress in the dark room, the only light coming from the window through which a trio of moons shone--the first full, the second half, the third crescent--so he could see her quarterstaff leaned against a corner, her lightsaber (grandfather’s?) on the nightstand, but her face had appeared in his eyeline, her lower lip glistening with a white shine that dribbled down her chin—‘ _you_ ,’ she said, ‘ _You should see the look on your face._ ‘  
  
Now, he falls back, onto sheets stained with sweat, just as she whispers the word.  
  
“Ren,” she tries again, like she’s chewing through a particularly fibrous shred of meat. It disagrees with her. “Kylo,” her mouth slips around the syllables. Briefly, she looks up, and even in the dark her mud-colored eyes find the light. It’s a question, not a statement.  
  
“Kylo…Ren?”  
  
Her fingers are on his chin, edging into where his teeth have peeked through, her chin poised on his sternum. When she shifts, he can feel the throb against the inside of her cunt, and it makes him sigh, recognizing that this is just the next in a series of moments which calls for his surrender.  
  
“Call me what you want,” he says, voice soft under the thundering in his veins.  
  
“Anything?” she asks, cheek against his chest. She is smiling. He realizes he has become accustomed to seeing that smile - _your mother has a new mission for us—I’ve talked Finn into not wanting to kill you, well, wanting to kill you a bit less—I’m piloting the Falcon, if you must do anything at all, you can do it from there, in the co-pilot’s seat, don’t give me that look_ \- but there is a pointedness in the pits of her eyes, quite apart from the softness that has come to pervade her face, after an hour (or two? He’s lost track) here, in her chambers.  
  
Her thumb presses down on the corner of his chin, as she lifts herself up, hips pressing down on his, and he bites back a noise that threatens to waver up his throat.  
  
“Darling?”  
  
He scoffs. “If you wish.”  
  
Her nail traces a line up his chin. “Beloved?”  
  
He huffs, and the whole weight of her presses down on his crotch. “Maybe. Like after a battle, and we’ve won, and everyone else is celebrating in the base, and I catch you alone under the wing of a starfighter and no one else notices—“  
  
She chuckles, and her palm presses warm against the scar that cuts down past his eye. The one she gave him, a long time ago. She shifts again, and he feels himself pulled into her, into warmth, into closed wetness, and in that moment all thought strews thin onto vanishing.  
  
Her voice tugs him back.  
  
“Sweetheart?” she asks.  
  
He inches his chin up, so she can look right down at his face.  
  
“No,” he says, “That’s what _I_ call _you_.”  
  
She presses down on him ( _stars—Rey_ —he manages to mumble) and as she does, leans, over his face, her elbows on either side of his head.  
  
“My…dear?” her hips press down more persistently, taking him deeper. Somehow she still speaks, through the grip of her throat. “My…what? What do I call—”  
  
She suddenly arcs back, and the shadows fall on the cut of her belly, the outline of her ribs. Her nipples are taut in the warmth that has grown around them both.  
  
But a light comes to her face. “My knight?” she asks.  
  
He actually smiles at that, tries not to show it, fails.  
  
“Yours,” he agrees. “Your knight.”  
  
She laughs - a light peal that flutters down, that makes his clutch on her hips tighten. “Yeah, you’d like that.”  
  
“Just between us,” he says. “Where no one else can hear.”  
  
She leans down again, and her lips finds his, and the smack of the landing echoes in the dark of the room. His right hand closes on the back of her head, keeps her there so his tongue can slip into her mouth, past the tightening of her smile.  
  
She is trying to say something through the bump of their teeth. It is a garbled noise, but the meaning of it slips seamlessly into his mind. “ _My knight_ ,” the words arise from her thoughts effortlessly. “ _Mine_.”  
  
His grip tightens around a handful of her hair and he suddenly turns to the side, upending her, swerving on the fulcrum of his upper arm, so now she’s beneath him, and when she gasps, he catches it in the inside of his mouth, while he pushes himself into her again. Her nails are pressed against his shoulders, but he can barely feel it.  
  
Her thoughts plunk into his mind. “ _Godammit, Ben_ —“  
  
He pushes in, deeper.  
  
“ _Ben_ —“ the name digs into him, as he knew it would. But it’s not nearly as painful as he imagined it would be, not coming from the cauldron of sensations that waft up from her mind, just the barest strains caught in the net of his senses.  
  
— _Ben_ — it is the one name inside her head in this very moment.  
  
He allows himself to take pleasure in that, as he feels the tension suffuse the entirety of her, a knot contracting until it frays—  
  
And wordless noise escapes her, and him, and the name seems to hang in the air between them, alive with the palpitation of his heart as his chest presses down on hers.  
  
When she’s finally shoved him aside, so he lays beside her, and she’s condescended to prop her chip up on his shoulder, he realizes that the name, like a wild canid, once released, cannot be caged again.  
  
In the morning it will be what she calls him in the briefing room, regardless of how the General (mother) lifts an eyebrow, or how the other members gape or gawk or mutter to each other. It will be the name that he hears through the comms when they’re stalking a First Order weapons shipment, when the skirmishes break out and blaster bolts are flying over his head, when time comes for him to draw the lightsaber and she’ll be before or behind or beside him, the thrum of her own saber audible in his ears.  
  
For now though, her breathing has slowed, and it occurs to him that he’ll have to wait for the morning until he hears her think his name again.  



End file.
